politicos, all of whom seemed to revere him. They did a lot of sitting around and talking through clouds of pot smoke. I was the only kid around the place that summer. I don’t remember what I did all day, but I do remember feeling out of place and homesick and intimidated by my father, who was as distant and gruff with me as ever. I felt awkward around him, like a big lummox. I wasn’t sure why I was there. Maybe he just wanted to upset my mother by enforcing his custodial rights.
One night, at a dinner with some friends of my father’s, as I watched an enormous bearded man frying an odd dish he called peachburgers, which were literally hamburger meat mixed withchopped canned peaches, I blurted out to the entire assemblage of guests, “My daddy hit my mommy, and she cried.”
There was something like a collective gasp from all the grown-ups. No one said anything for many ticks of the clock. They all stared at me as if I’d thrown a live grenade across the room.
After the party, as we were driving home, just the two of us, my father told me tersely, with controlled rage, never, ever, to say anything like that again. I had embarrassed him and upset his friends.
I was deeply, horribly mortified. What had I been thinking? I had wrecked the party. I had pissed my father off and hurt his feelings. I was such an asshole.
“I don’t know why I said that, Daddy,” I confessed wretchedly.
“You shouldn’t have,” he said. “Never do it again.”
I lay awake long into the night, racked with shame and regret.
Soon after that, I took off with my father and his girlfriend, a kind, solid woman named Karen, in a tomato-red VW bus to drive around the Southwest, just the three of us. I remember straddling the Four Corners grid, my hands and feet in four different states. We went to Bryce Canyon, Canyon de Chelly, the cliff dwellings in New Mexico.
I couldn’t stop annoying my father. I didn’t mean to annoy him; it just happened. I pestered him to play cards with me and bragged when I won; I could feel viscerally how tense this made him. One night, very late, long past my bedtime, he left the campfire where he’d been talking with a group of people we’d met and found me whimpering and crying outside the bus, standing in the darkness.
“Why aren’t you asleep?” he asked.
“You forgot to feed me,” I said. “No one put me to bed.”
“You’re almost nine years old,” he said. “Old enough to speak up. Don’t let this happen again!”
I recoiled. I hadn’t spoken up because I was not a kid who whined or asked for things, and I was shy with him sometimes. He gave me a yogurt, which I ate in silence, and then he packed me off to my little bed in the back of the bus. I lay there with a knot in my stomach, still hungry.
One day, Karen walked me into the desert alone and told me that I had to stop being such a pain in the ass. “Your father can’t take it anymore,” she said. “He’s really at the end of his rope.”
“Sorry,” I said. “I’ll try, I swear.”
Following this little talk, which felt like a Mafia hit, things deteriorated. And so, after a summer of looking like a wild animal—with messy hair, dirt-streaked face, and ratty clothes—I found myself suddenly, abruptly scrubbed clean with freshly washed and braided hair, wearing travel-worthy clothes, being driven to the Albuquerque airport.
My father looked at me in the rearview mirror as he drove. “If the cops stop us, they’ll think we kidnapped you,” he joked.
He had called my mother and told her I was flying back to Arizona that night. Luckily, she was home, in the middle of her weekly poker game with her psychologist pals, or she wouldn’t have known. She left my sleeping sisters in the care of a friend and drove to Sky Harbor airport.
When the stewardess who’d been put in charge of me walked me off the plane, there was my mother waiting at the gate. I had never been happier to see her.
CHAPTER 10
Food and Words
I got
One night, at a dinner with some friends of my father’s, as I watched an enormous bearded man frying an odd dish he called peachburgers, which were literally hamburger meat mixed withchopped canned peaches, I blurted out to the entire assemblage of guests, “My daddy hit my mommy, and she cried.”
There was something like a collective gasp from all the grown-ups. No one said anything for many ticks of the clock. They all stared at me as if I’d thrown a live grenade across the room.
After the party, as we were driving home, just the two of us, my father told me tersely, with controlled rage, never, ever, to say anything like that again. I had embarrassed him and upset his friends.
I was deeply, horribly mortified. What had I been thinking? I had wrecked the party. I had pissed my father off and hurt his feelings. I was such an asshole.
“I don’t know why I said that, Daddy,” I confessed wretchedly.
“You shouldn’t have,” he said. “Never do it again.”
I lay awake long into the night, racked with shame and regret.
Soon after that, I took off with my father and his girlfriend, a kind, solid woman named Karen, in a tomato-red VW bus to drive around the Southwest, just the three of us. I remember straddling the Four Corners grid, my hands and feet in four different states. We went to Bryce Canyon, Canyon de Chelly, the cliff dwellings in New Mexico.
I couldn’t stop annoying my father. I didn’t mean to annoy him; it just happened. I pestered him to play cards with me and bragged when I won; I could feel viscerally how tense this made him. One night, very late, long past my bedtime, he left the campfire where he’d been talking with a group of people we’d met and found me whimpering and crying outside the bus, standing in the darkness.
“Why aren’t you asleep?” he asked.
“You forgot to feed me,” I said. “No one put me to bed.”
“You’re almost nine years old,” he said. “Old enough to speak up. Don’t let this happen again!”
I recoiled. I hadn’t spoken up because I was not a kid who whined or asked for things, and I was shy with him sometimes. He gave me a yogurt, which I ate in silence, and then he packed me off to my little bed in the back of the bus. I lay there with a knot in my stomach, still hungry.
One day, Karen walked me into the desert alone and told me that I had to stop being such a pain in the ass. “Your father can’t take it anymore,” she said. “He’s really at the end of his rope.”
“Sorry,” I said. “I’ll try, I swear.”
Following this little talk, which felt like a Mafia hit, things deteriorated. And so, after a summer of looking like a wild animal—with messy hair, dirt-streaked face, and ratty clothes—I found myself suddenly, abruptly scrubbed clean with freshly washed and braided hair, wearing travel-worthy clothes, being driven to the Albuquerque airport.
My father looked at me in the rearview mirror as he drove. “If the cops stop us, they’ll think we kidnapped you,” he joked.
He had called my mother and told her I was flying back to Arizona that night. Luckily, she was home, in the middle of her weekly poker game with her psychologist pals, or she wouldn’t have known. She left my sleeping sisters in the care of a friend and drove to Sky Harbor airport.
When the stewardess who’d been put in charge of me walked me off the plane, there was my mother waiting at the gate. I had never been happier to see her.
CHAPTER 10
Food and Words
I got
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